At six in the morning, we pulled out of our condo that had sheltered us for five nights. Dawn fulfilled its promise of vibrant colors through the drive out of Anaconda to Butte where we stopped for coffee and breakfast.
Dawn
We drove under floating hot air balloons, by the babbling Yellowstone River to our unscheduled bathroom stop at a Rest Area which turned out to be a humble dose of history on Bozeman Trail where local tribes killed a traveling father and son while they camped.
As we left Montana and ventured deeper into the Northern Cheyenne reservation, fast moving motorcycles appeared. They stayed with us to the suburb of Rapid City where we refueled, wondering where the motorcycles were headed. That night as we called it a night at Chamberlain, SD, overlooking the Missouri River from our hotel on a hill, the motorcyclists, more than 400, 000 of them, converged in Sturgis, SD, a city we had crossed on the way. Later, on September 2, 2020, first Covid-19 death was reported from that event. At least 260 cases (those who agreed to testing) countrywide contracted covid from here. It was surreal to realize how close we had gotten ourselves to them. Not that we are the types to ignore medical professionals. But we were on the road. To be free, you must be alive, a concept lost to some.
We had stopped in the evening at the Chapel in the Hills located in Rapid City, not too far from Sturgis.
Missouri River view from hotel
Chapel in the Hill
Dusk
Next morning, with breakfast to go, we set our eyes on our home and drove east. Our pit stop today was at the Sioux Falls, SD.
Whatever entertains
Dawn
We made it home in daylight. I wish I remembered what I felt, what we spoke about, but all I knew was we were home. We were lucky. We were blessed. Thank you, God, for giving me a perspective to see so much beauty and live this life.
This marks the final blog in the “Chasing Memories” series to Montana. If you like this, please subscribe (click on follow button in lower right corner) with your email here at www.bookofdreams.us. You will automatically enter a RAFFLE to win my upcoming book, Land of Dreams.
Today, we drove north via Helena to Canyon Ferry Lake where children played on its rocky shores. When I spotted a golden snake behind a boulder while trying to find a place to sit, the children unwilling to leave hopped back into the car. Unintended catalyst but intended outcome.
Canyon Ferry Lake
Our last Lewis and Clark spot involved the Gates of Mountains where boat tours left at the top of the hour, none carrying us, only fifty other brave souls. Since no private tours were offered, we snapped a photo and left. Gates of the Mountains marks the place where the Lewis and Clark journey, sailing west on Missouri River, ended when they hit the Rockies. They termed the range as Gates of Mountains to signify their impenetrable force.
Gates of Mountains
McDonald Pass
We returned to our rental well in time today via McDonald Pass where the thunderous new look of the Georgetown Lake graced us. We packed and loaded our car, and I buried myself reading two books: Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine and Sin and Syntax.
Dinner
All journeys end. Last year we had ended our diverse vacation to UK (England, Wales, Scotland) and Iceland. Despite it being one of our best trips, we were ready to return from it. Montana felt short—too short. I wanted to linger in its valleys. It had slipped between my fingers like a movie that ended prematurely. And the future was as precarious as ever. But I’d to return to nipping and budding of my forthcoming book: Land of Dreams. And this writer had refilled her chest of imagination, inspiration, thanks to the big sky country of Montana.
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Day five began with another colorful and peaceful dawn.
Dawn
Today we drove on a dusty road to the shimmering, green Wade Lake where the children stood in its lapping waves; the pebbled shore massaged our feet; and people in kayaks floated on its waters. The lake was so still reflecting mountains in its depths that we, too, stole a few precious moments to reflect and ponder.
Wade Lake
The drive to Big Sky featured the Earthquake lake where burnt trees stumps jutted from its surface, and the Madison River that roared from the cliff below. When we reached the restaurant inside a golf course, where our order was ready for pickup, not one customer dined in their outside patio, and every worker and customer wore a face mask, even their mannequins. We gleefully grabbed an outside table and dined out for the first time since March in the quaint valley of Big Sky. I wish I had remembered the last restaurant we ate at before covid. But still, this experience was precious, precious, precious.
The restaurant experience
Our last stop involved hiking to the ousel falls. Along the babbling river, we walked with our face masks on, on the crowded trail, carrying an awareness inside our hearts: this was the last hike, the last activity of our trip. The future reeled in the throws of a pandemic during an election year. Nothing was certain. One truth defined our present moment: our existence, our thoughts, our love for one another, and our ability to place the happiness of each other over our own—the secret sauce of happiness is in breaking the self-involved outlook and gain empathy for others’ feelings. When I became a mother, I learned to truly give and that made me happy. Those unhappy often complain about how they are treated, how they should be treated, etc. And it’s easy for anyone to fall into that trap. So I hang on to this realization close to my heart. Our vacation would end soon but better not our love.
Ousel Falls – Big Sky, MT
The drive back along another gushing river delivered an ointment to old wounds, rejuvenated the spirit, and prepared us to face life again. Tomorrow would be our last day in Montana before we ventured back east to the place we call home: Chicago, IL
The clinking of the drapes. A sunrise. Five mesmerized eyes.
A socially distant vacation
Life’s a big fat experiment. Though no future plans would involve driving through the night, if we hadn’t ever done so, missing from our lives would be spectacular dusk and dawn, badlands, mountain goats, endless deserts, and cramped mountain passes. So I am fuller because of my folly.
After a full night’s sleep in a hotel, we rose in time for another spectacular sunrise through the parking lot. Hello, new day!
DAWN
Today, we planned to head further west, deeper into the Rockies to a quaint valley town named Anaconda, Montana, about eight hours away—a smidgen of what we’d already driven.
We skipped the hotel’s “buffet breakfast” despite it being included in our stay. In the tiny town, only McDonald’s drive-through beamed with cars, offering coffee and breakfast.
The Rockies had reckoned my oldest, and when Buffalo, Wyoming, ended and the Big Horns began, it not only silenced his questions: “Is this mound, this hill, the Rockies?”! but also gave him a sense of a destination. While the journey fascinates, also necessary is the fulfillment of a goal. The delightfully beautiful Big Horns rewarded us with solitude amongst photogenic vistas and the Meadowlark lake. I found myself steepling my hands in gratitude, thankful to be able to enjoy outdoors quietly and safely given the current times. We had stolen these precious moments from the bosom of a powerful pandemic. And when the flowing rivers comforted my spirit, I wondered why. Why did the gushing water’s gurgle that never ebbed, never slept, never tired, deliver tranquility? Is it the security it stays where you leave it, the way you leave it? Or is it because I don’t live next to its roar?
Whatever the case, I stopped editing Land of Dreams, my forthcoming book, that had troubled me plenty. I had brought two books, but I gawked out of my window today. Within an hour, the Big Horns came and passed. We entered a small town named Ten Sleep, Wyoming. One tale suggested it got its name because it took ten sleeps/moons to get here from Fort Laramie.
Had we stayed on US-16 W, we would have hit Lake Yellowstone. But we avoided the popular national park’s concentrated crowds today. Deep country surrounded us north before we stopped at Big Horn Lake by Shoshone river. There, you could hold a conversation with your echo amidst the remote, endless, and scorching landscape. The children succumbed to their iPads before we invested moments of nothingness, just plain old peaceful idleness—a commodity missing from modern life.
When we crossed Joliet, Montana, a small hub of 656 people, a distinct purpose hung in the air. Stalls of Trump souvenirs lined the highway. Home after home pledged their allegiance. Through Montana, South Dakota, and Wisconsin, Trump-labeled roadside trucks, shops appeared without fail. An early indication of momentum and energy?
Post Joliet, the heat climbed to one hundred degrees when I drove the last segment, accompanied by Yellowstone River and freight trains.
We loaded on quick-fix meals from Safeway inside the Historic town in Butte before hitting Hwy 1-N, beginning our final stretch.
Anaconda ranks tenth largest town in the state at 9K population with Butte at number five and Billings at number one. So relatively, we escaped living in a twenty-bodied village. Around the highway, old buildings jutted from the ground—coffee kiosks, gas stations, large grocery stores, pharmacies, etc. Then the newer residential zone began. Crossing Anaconda hurled us into the Lake country, reminding us of last August when we had cut through the Scottish Lochs. A hut perched in the shimmering Silver Lake. Further removed, the Georgetown Lake glittered, and our condo arrived, too. At the ripe hour of seven-thirty, we entered our tiny rental, studded with glass patio doors on all three sides, overlooking Dentons Point at the lake.
After disinfecting and showering, we popped frozen food into the microwave. And when I crashed on bed, fatigue drowned me in its embrace without permission.
DUSK
Exhausted, yes. But I was alive, I was here, and I was me on a mission called recuperation and rejuvenation.
Ah the blissful coat of deep, dark sleep.
Trivia:
Georgetown Lake is a manmade reservoir created in 1885 to power Phillipsburg and area mining. It got its name when it flooded an area named Georgetown flats. Shoreline: 17.36 miles. Average depth: 16 feet. Surface area: 2,818.1 acres.
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